Lovelorn
by unseemly
Summary: What really happened at Icecrown. Adult language.


**Blizzard owns Warcraft.**

...

Lovelorn

...

Below, upon the ice, two mighty, unyielding adversaries were locked in fiercest combat. The destiny of the world – _i__ndeed__, the very fate of Life, itself – _was poised to be determined by blade, by iron will, and warrior mettle.

_The contest for Icecrown had begun._

Ner'zhul, the great and terrible Lich King, Lord and Master of the Scourge, called out to rally his champion. _**Annihilate this upstart, who dares in his folly to oppose me! **_he commanded telepathically.**_ Show unto him his ruin..._****_ show unto him his... _**

Ner'zhul's mental urgings faltered; he squinted incredulously. An unexpected pause in the hostilities had occurred, and now both combatants had lowered their weapons as they faced each other fully. The Lich King's jaw jutted in disbelief; he ground his phantasmal tusks. _'What the hell?' _he wondered. '_Are they... __dialoguing?'_

_**Obey my biding**_**, **_**young prince, my perfect knight, my dark champion of the Scourge... wreak doom upon my enemies, and I will visit upon you your just rewar— **_

"Believe me," Arthas Menethil was saying, "I know _exactly_ how you feel."

_ 'No,' _ thought the Lich King, for now his champion was nodding sympathetically. _'Just... NO__.'_

"Oh my Tyrande, _oh,_ the exquisite pain of my loss," Illidan Stormrage cried out with grievous sorrow, tossing his warglaives aside. With an angsty hoot, he sat down in the snow. "I am a man desolated, wrecked by love's caprice!" he wailed, his rich, deep voice plangent in the forbidding wilderness. "Yet still and forever she tempts my breaking heart! Ten thousand long _years,_ this torment!"

The blizzard wind died and the ever-creaking ice grew still, as if even Nature, Herself, had paused to heed the mighty hunter's woeful lament. "And ye gods," he professed in a reverent tone, "have you seen her... _her..."_ he lifted his hands, his expression one of purest adoration as he described with graceful, sweeping gestures the rousing attributes of the siren in question.

"Awesome rack?" Arthas weighed in; for _indeed,_ tales were told, songs were sung, and fleshy odes of diligent fapping were offered up in breathless praise of the womanly abundance of Elune's saber-sprawling high priestess.

"Yes!" Illidan cried, and the two men exchanged a slow nod of amazement and - despite the chill - a warm moment of glandular camaraderie.

Arthas sighed, moving to sit cross-legged beside the gloomy elf – that most unwilling minion of the trauma-inducing Kil'jaeden. "Women," the death knight said gravely as he laid Frostmourne across his bent knees, resting his forearms upon the flat of the ravenous blade, "They can be _brutal."_

'Oh_ shit,' _thought the Dark Lord of the Undead, '_don't TELL me he's still pining for that damned Proudmoore woman!'_

"I did it all for _you_, Tyrande!" Illidan proclaimed with poignant urgency, tilting back his head and gazing up into the dismal sky. A few snowflakes spiraled down and the demon hunter caught one, pondering its lacy, fleeting beauty but a moment, before it flashed to steam upon his heated palm. "My heart_," _he groaned, pressing that same hand to a massive pectoral muscle – which he then flexed to impressive effect, "it _aches_ as a stone bruise within my breast..."

"Tell it, brother," Arthas said, moved by the weight of the metaphor; and he clasped the elf's shoulder in a meaningful grip, sympathetic to his pain.

"Oh my beloved," Illidan further declared, inspired to confession by the death knight's empathy, "would that you could but realize my willingness to risk _all_ to bask, serene, at the summit of your approval," he shook his head, filled with the remorse of unchangeable events, "... yet _alas..."_ When the brooding clouds he gazed upon offered no comforting solace, the demon hunter sighed; and wounded by their cold indifference, he turned to peer at the much more attentive fallen prince. "I just wanted her to know that I really _do_ have all these gooey, squishy _feelings_ and things… you know?"

_**Come to me, my champion**__... _the deep voice boomed through Arthas's thoughts; it was substantially louder this time and oddly desperate in tone. While it _was_ beginning to vex him, he had no difficulty ignoring it, just the same.

"Have you told her how you feel?" the prince inquired of his companion. "Women really love it when you open up to them."

_**Most worthy Chosen One**..._ Ner'zhul tried wheedling; at this, however, he was not especially skilled, as the vernacular of deceit tended to be a bit limited, lest the multifaceted bullshit of its nature be revealed. **_Your reward awaits you..._**

There was another wistful sigh and the glowing green eyes of the demon hunter, seething with power behind their tattered blindfold, again turned with heartfelt intensity upon his unexpected advocate. "Oh, she _knows,_" he murmured.

"Yeah, they usually _do,_" Arthas said, reaching out to lay a consoling arm across Illidan's shoulders. "Been there, done that." The rebuffed elf leaned gratefully into the brotherly embrace for an interlude of manly bonding.

_"...And **now** it's a bromance..." _the Lich King grumbled irritably to himself inside the confines of his icy cocoon.

_'What the C'Thun am I to do?' _he then wondered. '_Why, an arthritic oldster could have wobbled up the spire by now __and into my evil clutches__. T__HIS__ is the price I pay for choosing an aristocratic, twenty-something pretty-boy! __I should have known he was too hormonal to trust! Humans! Argh!'_

Frustrated past any verbal expression of discontent, Ner'zhul slammed his ghostly fist into the ice enclosing him. The already compromising crack creaked in response, yawning wider. _Oh crap!_ Frantically, he tried to squeeze the edges of the rift back together by force of will, but to no avail. In fact, it yawned a bit wider still for his tampering. Ner'zhul felt even more of his power ooze away and dissipate.

_**Arthas! Come! Hurry to my side... my power... it drains, it fails me...**_

"You too?" Illidan inquired of his adversary. "A victim of cruel and faithless love? Cast aside by ardor's indifferent hand..."

"The whole ugly scene," the death knight admitted. "The unreasonable demands, the pretense of loyalty. The freaking _baby_ scare... _whoa._ But worst of all," he added in a whisper, "the _betrayal..."_

Illidan sighed, murmuring soft commiserations as he gently patted Arthas's back in wounded solidarity. "Take heart," he soothed, pondering his companion with an earnest demeanor before adding: "Perhaps the two of you might reconcile?"

Arthas shook his head, moodily tracing the skull on his greave with one finger. "She didn't even come out and say hello when I laid siege to Dalaran. And I _know_ she was there. Now? No way. She ran off to Kalimdor and started hanging out with an _orc_ just to hurt me."

_"Kalimdor," _Illidan sighed, "Where my beloved lies, lonely in her bed... writhing in... _in..."_

"...sweaty, unfulfilled animal passion?" Arthas offered, hopeful and supportive.

"Yes!" Illidan exclaimed, "Oh _yes..._" His eyebrows peaked, "A bit indelicate, perhaps – but I must say, I'm totally responding to the imagery!" His brows furrowed then, as his mood plummeted; he heaved another deep and sorrowful sigh. _"N__eglected,_ I tell you, and in the very _prime_ of her vigorous womanhood, by my ass of a brother, who cares for nothing but prancing about in his Emerald Wet Dream!"

_** Arthas! Get the HELL up here so I can STEAL YOUR BODY!**_

_ Oops. _Nerzhul clamped a nebulous hand over his mouth; but he need not have bothered as his intended prey was paying absolutely no attention to his demands.

"Is there no one else?" Arthas asked. "Someone who could maybe help you to move on?"

"Vashj has kindly been _most_ attentive..." Illidan said, his gaze drifting in pleasant reverie, "...she has the most fabulous _prehensile_ tail..." Arthas's eyes widened. _"Yeeesss,"_ Illidan dipped his head in a meaningful nod, "and I must say her undulating fins can lift one from almost _any_ despondency. I think you can imagine the embraces we share."

_Indeed Arthas could._

"And of course, there was _Maiev..." _Illidan murmured, a faint, nostalgic smile briefly brightening his somber mien, "that tempestuous vixen of my storied youth. Her obsession with me – and with bondage – kept me preoccupied for a few thousand years." He paused to muse. "Even now she pursues me," he then added, "unrequited, yearning for what once was, aching to subjugate me yet again and punish me repeatedly for my perceived misdeeds. She craves me so, unable to set the past aside." Another massive sigh demanded release as Illidan nodded his understanding of his jailer's plight; he knew all too well the terrible hopelessness of such passions. "She's wonderfully adept with a whip, I can attest; for I do indeed wear the burning scars of her dominion. Yet even as she brutalized me, reveling in my painful oppression, she remained burdened, deeply troubled by frustrations. Sadly, she feels she is dismissed, unappreciated, and her work, but a token gesture of appeasement from the archdruids' Old Boys' Club. Such is the bane of an ambitious woman."

"The Kirin Tor was the same..." Arthas replied, nodding in thoughtful recollection. "I was a whipping boy too." He smiled sadly over his own memories of private time with his magically-gifted, once-beloved mage.

The two men exchanged a knowing look. "It never lasts though, does it?" Arthas murmured.

Illidan groaned softly. "I soon found myself imagining it was Tyrande instead... in that _stunning_ leather thong and those painfully-applied stilettos."

"Oh, I didn't have to _imagine,_" Arthas whispered, his voice tinged with wonder, as he gazed wide-eyed into the wilderness before him, embraced by titillating memories. Shortly, sighing over his loss, he returned his attentions to the melancholy elf. "You just need to put yourself back out there," he advised. "Let the ladies see what they're missing. They're looking, believe me; and I'm betting gold the tattoos _alone_ will drive them wild. And the _wings?_ Oh _Hell_ yeah! Women are gonna want to get their hands all over _them..._ the horns too..." Arthas cocked a suggestive eyebrow, nodding his certainty of the mesmerizing power of Illidan's impressive appendages. "Not to mention the hair," he added. "You've got great hair."

Pleased to be appreciated, Illidan lifted his head, clenching his manly jaw as he presented – in silhouette, for optimum impact – the powerful, chiseled features that so defined him. "Thank you," he modestly deferred. "And might I say, _you_ have the look of commanding-yet-sensual villain _down _– the icy aura, the smoldering gaze... _literally._ The big blade_._"

"You don't think the skulls are too much?" Arthas asked anxiously, "I'm a bit concerned about overworking the motif."

"No, man, no. It's got all that brooding-intensity-thing that women think is so hot."

"_Hot_. Hm. Maybe _that's_ my problem."

Illidan considered this possibility. "_Could_ _be_. Perhaps you just need to catch some rays – get your bronze back."

Arthas pondered this new avenue of thought. 'Solid advice,' he decided, watching as Illidan tilted back his head, tossing it so that his beautiful ebony tresses could ripple spectacularly in the chill breeze.

_"Yeah,"_ the death knight said admiringly. "Now that's a _serious_ mane."

"Perhaps I _should_ venture forth, for my heart's sake," Illidan said. "Maiev told me centuries ago – and repeatedly – that I do have, _indeed to excess_, a most compelling secret weapon..." The demon hunter paused, offering a provocative and pointed glance downward. "Yet did this abundance of burgeoning love turn my beloved's head? It did _not_."

Arthas nodded pensively. "I'm beginning to believe women might actually _mean_ it when they say size doesn't matter."

With a maudlin sniff, Illidan drew a large, irregular heart in the snow with a taloned forefinger. "Agreed. And how disheartening it is to possess this magnificent wad of manly junk all for naught."

"Try wearing _armor,_" the prince replied grimly.

_**ARRTTHHAASS! **_Ner'zhul roared, his patience gone.

"You know how it is," the death knight said, "they just want to fondle your muscles, and brag about bedding you, while they parade you for their friends to ogle like livestock. Then they get all defensive when you find something else to fill the void of their disregard." Illidan nodded sorrowfully, and Arthas gazed at Frostmourne, as the runeblade crooned its comforting emotional reassurance. "Doesn't matter how many screaming orgasms you give them," he added. "It's never enough."

_** Menethil! Get your royal arse up these steps this fucking instant!**_

Illidan glanced at Arthas sidelong, "Screaming _what?"_

_ "_Nevermind," was the dejected reply. "Scarcely matters now." The death knight gestured halfheartedly to the blood-sprinkled snow. "You want to fight some more?"

"With this burden of ennui oppressing me? I think _not._ You?"

"Seems the blood lust _has_ passed."

_** NO!**_

"What say we go get hammered," Illidan said. "I find sharing with you to be very therapeutic."

Arthas brightened at the suggestion, only to scowl shortly, when the deep voice reiterated it demands in his head; and he pointed to the glowing portal that pulsed invitingly not far from where they sat. "_That_ migraine is still hassling me."

"You're looking at one helluva long climb," Illidan opined, eyeing the sheer face of the glacier with a doubtful frown. "Think it's worth the effort?"

"I really kind of doubt it."

_**How dare you dismiss me! You are MINE!**_

"You know, when I first set foot on Northrend,_"_ Arthas reminisced, "I had a _great_ time..." he caressed Frostmourne affectionately, "but _this_ trip has been a major disappointment. Even killing that Forgotten One wasn't up to my expectations. Barely tapped my mana pool."

_**Aaarrrgh!**_

"It also _smells_ a lot worse than I remember, and did you see that giant-ass bug-thing I was with earlier? _Damn._ I was like _what the fuck is **this**_ when he scuttled over and swore me his _literally-_undying fealty. But the absolute _worst_ is that irritating Voice; it _never_ stops yapping... something about a _Frozen Throne_… and what do you bet I'll be expected to _sit_ on the damned thing. Sure, I'll look impressive and menacing as Hell, but that's just asking for frostbite, which this armor makes like a hundred times worse."

"Well, look at what _I'm_ wearing. I can't even feel my hooves anymore."

"Screw it," Arthas said, getting to his feet. "He's waited _this_ long... what's the rush, right?"

Ner'zhul bellowed noisily in frantic frustration. His mind racing, he decided to try a different tactic. _**What of the Banshee Queen, my prince? **_

It was so simple really, playing with human arrogance, with shadowy self-doubts...

_**She taunts you! Taking your kingdom for her own!**_

Arthas shrugged. Perfectly good answer to that: _What-__the-fuck-__ever. _As far as he was concerned, Sylvanas could _have_ Lordaeron. Hell, he'd been wanting to shed that weight of responsibility for _years._

"As to _Kil'jaeden's_ demands..." Illidan announced, applying an instructive finger to one lobe of the superbly rounded, magically tattooed, and stunningly ripped buttocks upon which he sat. "He can just _kiss this_."

(Years later, this gesture would become an esoteric hand signal amongst the Illidari: that faithful throng of devotees who would pledge their lives – _indeed their very souls_ – upon the sculpted contours of Illidan Stormrage's amazing ass.)

"I grow weary," the demon hunter intoned, "of having my insatiable hunger for power so callously manipulated; and frankly, I have found The Deceiver to be intrusive upon my personal space, and _exceedingly_ insensitive to the state of my emotional wellness_._ Therefore..." Again the finger was pressed posteriorly, the indicated muscle flexing with fierce purpose.

Nodding his emphatic agreement, Arthas extended a hand to the demon hunter, helping him to his unsteady hooves. "Sorry about the wing," he said in sincere apology; but judging the severity of his battle injury as minimal, Illidan gestured reassuringly.

"Kael'thas is **_so_** prepared. He insisted upon the finest designer bandages, just for this excursion. And long johns too. _Elven mana worm silk_._"_

"_Nice_," said Arthas, impressed.

"Speaking of Kael'thas, if I may I ask... would you mind terribly if he joins us? He's been so rushed and stressed of late, and he's had a positively _horrid_ time cleaning up after Al'ar – who is expressing his displeasure with the weather by indiscriminately farting fire damage _everywhere._ I suspect poor Kael would benefit from a well-mixed cocktail and some pleasant conversation."

"Not a problem. You'd be surprised how much we have in common."

_**ACK! That is ENOUGH! **_Ner'zhul yowled._** Give me back my sword!**_ he demanded in a huff.

"Yeah. _That'll_ happen,_" _was Arthas's amused response.

**_The blade is MINE, human! _**the ghostly wizard roared, **_Mine, I tell you! _**Raising both his fists, Ner'zhul focused all his might and magical prowess upon the perfect weapon. _**Return to me!**_ he summoned forcefully,_** Together we will feast upon the souls of two worlds! **_

"As _if,"_ said Frostmourne. "All you want from me is to have me dull my poor blade getting you out of the ice. You got yourself into that mess, get yourself out. You warlocks are all the same... all you see when you look at me is a magical _object _to exploit! Admit it! You've never seen me as what I _really_ am – a _weapon__! _ And a beautiful, powerful weapon at that! But Arthas sees the real me... _he_ knows I'm at my _best_ when caked with blood and guts and splattered brains. _He's_ good to me, taking me out on vicious forays, feeding me juicy souls, polishing me with soft, oily cloths before slipping me gently into my comfy scabbard... _He _knows how to _treat_ a runeblade."

Ner'zhul gaped, disbelieving – indeed, _wounded_ to be found so lacking; but there was little time to contemplate upon the runeblade's betrayal, for it was then the huge and grouchy voice of Kil'jaeden the Deceiver suddenly boomed:

_**"NER'ZHUL! I **__**SEEEE**__** you**__**uuu!**_ _**You have DEFIED me for the LAST time, puny, once-mortal, disembodied person! KNOW MY WRATH!"**_

_**"Hey! That's MY Line!" **_were the Lich King's final words.

There came a deep thunder from the Twisting Nether and the two once-adversaries watched as a massive fireball flew from the firmament, barreling into Icecrown glacier. There was a titanic explosion, a great mushroom cloud of steam, and what was left of the previously imposing mountain of ice collapsed with a resounding thud of finality. A brief deluge of pulverized ice rained down in epitaph.

"Well," said Illidan, "that's not very ecologically responsible_."_

"Nope," Arthas replied, "but the headache's gone." He nudged his companion. "Wanna go hit that little tavern down at the Fjord? They've got great Vrykul mead..." Illidan gave an eager nod and the hopeful smile of one who has found a kindred spirit.

_"...And,"_ Arthas added with a wink, as they strolled away from the devastation, "the best _frozen scones_ on Azeroth!"

**...**


End file.
